


Your Madness is Mine

by wolfgirl232



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Condescension, Hand Jobs, Hannigram - Freeform, Knifeplay, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Orgasm Denial, Threats, Unstable Will, mental aspects, mention of prescription drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfgirl232/pseuds/wolfgirl232
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will closed his eyes and let his head roll backwards, slowly, resting it on Hannibal’s shoulder. After all that had happened, he had learned to stop questioning the path his life took. Despite this being completely unexpected, he let himself accept what was happening. And besides, giving himself over to Hannibal felt as natural as slipping into unconsciousness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Repetition Kills You

The waiting room door clicked softly open, and an impeccably dressed Hannibal stepped forward.

“Come in, Will,” he crooned, turning halfway to gesture him in. Will rose from the armchair, hesitantly entering the office. 

It was their ritual—Will arriving precisely twelve minutes before his evening appointment two days a week, sitting in the second chair from the wall in the waiting room, staring blankly at the grey-beige paint of the spot directly in front of him. He would wait exactly twelve minutes for Hannibal in the armchair. If he arrived too early, he would wait outside the waiting room until it was twelve minutes before his appointment. It had to be twelve. The routine kept him sane. 

Hannibal would eventually come to collect him, waving him in with the same choreographed gesture and half-turn, never late. Will would walk in unsteadily, like wounded prey, and Hannibal would close the door.

Only when he had sealed them into their isolation was the spell broken. Alone with Hannibal, Will was released from his practiced monotony, free to sit or walk about. Alone in his house or his car, Will never strayed from his routine, his mechanical days protecting him. But in the haven that was a room alone with Dr. Lecter, Will could finally relax.

This evening began the same as many before it. Will quietly walked the perimeter of the room, his fingers trailing along the spines of books and the edges of picture frames as Hannibal asked about his weekend. Nothing particularly alarming had occurred, other than the night terrors he seemed to have developed in the past weeks becoming ever worse. Hannibal mused out loud that he might provide him a sedative, and Will chuckled to himself. One more gift from his drug dealer. He was slowly filling his cabinets with prescription painkillers for the migraines and benzodiazepines for the anxiety. On and on, bottles upon bottles of drugs. Each morning Will would open his cupboard and stare at them a while. He never took any. He would rather not stop needing therapy.

Hannibal was the axis around which Will’s severely off-kilter planet rotated. He needed him. He was not about to get better.

Will had not been aware he was speaking aloud.

He was caressing the antlers of the stag sculpture when he felt warm fingers playing along the back of his neck, dipping under the collar of his sweater. The ragged voice breathed into his ear, “I have no intention of allowing you to get better.”

Will closed his eyes and let his head roll backwards, slowly, resting it on Hannibal’s shoulder. After all that had happened, he had learned to stop questioning the path his life took. Despite this being completely unexpected, he let himself accept what was happening. And besides, giving himself over to Hannibal felt as natural as slipping into unconsciousness. 

He felt a gentle hand graze across his windpipe before its grip settled around his neck, the pressure just enough to be uncomfortable.

“I want to carve it into your skin,” he whispered. “In big, hungry, greedy letters, all capital. MINE. I want to feel your flesh give under my hands.”

Will shivered, and the motion brushed his body against Hannibal’s, just barely. 

The next thing Will was aware of was his back being pushed down onto the chaise lounge, the hand still encircling his throat. One of Hannibal’s knees rested between his legs, his other foot still on the floor. Hannibal released him and slipped a hand into the interior pocket of his suit coat, procuring a pocket knife. Will lay still as he clicked it open, running a thumb over the blade.

Hannibal’s gaze locked on Will as the tip of the knife approached his throat, Will’s eyes glued to the steel. Gently, he turned his wrist and ran the flat of the knife across the scruff of his jaw. Will’s steel blue eyes flicked up to meet Hannibal’s. 

Will watched his therapist’s face as he carefully grasped Will’s collar between finger and thumb. With his other hand, he pushed the blade down, the finely tuned edge parting the knit and the shirt beneath.

With the precision of a practiced surgeon, Hannibal slowly dissected Will’s clothing. When he reached the hem, he tucked the knife back into his pocket, and peeled back the fabric.

Will’s chest exposed, Hannibal ducked his head and ran his tongue from his sternum, up his neck to his ear, before biting him under the jaw. Will ground ground his teeth to suppress the moan that nearly escaped him. Hannibal’s palm again pressed to his neck, his thumb just under his ear and his fingertips resting on his vertebrae, holding him, steadying him. Will shuddered at the contact. 

Hannibal’s other hand rested on his rib cage, until he began to drag it down the length of Will’s body, grip sliding from waist to stomach to hips, his thumb softly pressing into the hollow of his leg socket. 

Hannibal’s mouth moved to Will’s own, and gently he took his bottom lip between his teeth, pulling on it as he bit down. At the same moment, he slipped his fingers under the waistband of Will’s jeans, brushing against his hipbone. Will gasped like a drowning man, his back arching off the leather. Hannibal pushed him back down. Releasing Will’s lip, he pulled back slightly to watch him.

Hannibal cocked his head slightly to the side, almost condescendingly, as he began to undo the button of Will’s pants. Will watched back, hating Hannibal and his smug, derogatory almost-smile, as if he was amused at Will’s desperation. Will struggled to remain still, to not betray to Hannibal how much he needed it, how long it had been, how his body had never been made to sing under anyone’s hands like it was now singing under Hannibal’s. No, not singing. Screaming.

Will and his captor watched each other as Hannibal’s expert fingers dragged the zipper over its metal teeth, Will’s jaw held tight. 

Fluidly, Hannibal’s hand slipped into Will’s boxers and found him, firm fingers wrapping around his shaft. His back arched again, pushing himself into Hannibal’s grip. Hannibal’s face remained barely patronizingly amused, a doctor watching his patient react with mild interest. His expression made it clear—Will was Hannibal’s plaything, and he wanted him to know it.

With one hand still on his neck, Hannibal began to stroke his hand rhythmically up and down Will’s length. Gradually, Will began to writhe, struggling to restrain his own movement, his hands grabbing at the lapels of Hannibal’s coat. Hannibal simply gathered both of his wrists together and pinned them to the chaise above his head. 

Hannibal’s eyes never left Will’s face, even as Will’s eyelids fluttered closed over and over, but Hannibal was mapping him, learning what Will wanted and what hurt him and what drove him mad. He found if he held his fingers just so, and stroked just there, Will’s eyes would snap open, his pupils blown wide, the muscles in his wrists straining against his grasp. 

Over and over, Hannibal brought Will to the edge, and each time he refused to let him fall. He studied Will’s face as he approached orgasm, his impending release clear on his features. Hannibal would continue until Will’s mouth was stretched open, not breathing, begging Hannibal to let him. But just then he would stop, and Will would begin gasping for breath.

Hannibal continued denying him until a sheen of sweat rose on Will’s skin, his fighting growing weaker, his eyes spending less and less time open. Again, he brought him to the edge, and he could tell Will was ready for the denial, ready for the burning of holding himself back, ready for the strain and the limpness of his battered body and Hannibal’s beginning again. He knew Will was ready for it, so this time, he kept going.

Will kept waiting for him to stop, waiting for the steady grasp to stop pulling along his length, the tightness building in his groin, more and more and more but Hannibal continued, his hand firmly surrounding him, his breath on his face and his skin hot against the straining tendons in his wrists and Will was falling apart, the edges of his vision blurring as Hannibal remained in focus, clear and steady, grounding Will, holding him together. Will knew that even if he shattered, Hannibal would pick up the pieces and fix him, even if just to break him again. 

Will’s body betrayed him, his mind incapable of overriding as his whole body trembled, his mouth falling open. Will moaned like a dying animal as Hannibal pushed him over the edge, violently spilling into his hand and across his own stomach. Hannibal held onto him as Will rocked forward, his stroking growing slower, making sure he took everything Will had from him. 

Spent, Will went limp beneath Hannibal. He was only half aware of Hannibal’s rising from the chaise to cross the room, returning with a box of tissues. He lay still as Hannibal cleaned him up and tucked him back into his jeans. 

Will awoke with a start, the room dimly lit and light emanating from directly above him. His bisected shirt and sweater were missing, and he lay plastered to Hannibal, his head on his chest as Dr. Lecter reclined on the chaise lounge, reading a book. Will groaned, reaching up to rub at his face.

“Ah, Will, you’re awake.” Hannibal lowered his book, clicking off the harsh LEDs of the reading light. “You had a pleasant rest I trust?”

Will grew still. Yes. Yes he had slept peacefully. “For the first time since I can remember,” Will replied groggily, thinking he might actually like to go back to sleep.

“Good. I think I shall continue to administer that treatment then.” Will looked up and found Hannibal smiling down at him. Will scoffed, and began rubbing at his face again, the memories working their way back to him…

Hannibal went back to reading, one of his hands stroking Will’s hair.


	2. Fault Lines

I wandered through the catacombs for you. I called out to you like a son. Like a lamb looking for its flock. And I knew you were there. I felt you. In the very air in my lungs I could feel it. 

You were my protector. My jailer. You held all my keys. And when you left you took them with you, chiming softly on your hip, and I am powerless to unlock myself again. I dare not confront my mind without you. You have made me a fugitive from my own consciousness.

But I forgive you. I need you. Like an animal needs to eat, like a planet needs to orbit its star. 

You are my— you are my everything. 

I can't. I can't do it. Don't ask me to live without you. I won't. I don't have to you know. I am here by the grace of me. Should I slip down too far into the corners of my mind, with you not here to catch me by the wrist, I will disappear from your life forever. I will be down beneath the waters of the end and you will never find me again. But I will find you. I will walk with you through the scarred halls of memory where you will always live on. Because you are my vessel now. Into you I have poured all of myself and when you left you took me with you. The shell you have left has no more capacity than to seek the rest of itself. Please. Come fill me up again. I need it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Tiffa for beta edits!


End file.
